Now, I know that it hasn’t been a full month since he breathed his last breath,
Or the last beat of his heart,
Or the very last time I saw him “alive,”
But a month ago we lost the him we knew and a life of familiarity.

We lost his laughter and his political grumblings,
The ability to ask him one more time what the Tin-Man symbolized in the Wizard of Oz,
As well as questions we never knew to ask him beforehand.

We lost his voice.
Of course, we have recordings from the past thirty years-
Videotapes from birthdays and Christmases. Even a Facebook video or two on a needed Civics lesson.
But recordings, though sacred, just aren’t the same.

One month ago today,
I lost the blessing of receiving his hugs
And his constant reminders to gargle with saltwater
And to get my oil changed and have all of the fluid levels checked.

I lost the ability to see his eyes not only open
But look and interact with the people surrounding him.

His spirit ascended while we were left to descend into the valley of grief.

So until I can climb out of this valley under the dome of cloud-filled skies,
God grant me the strength I need to take life 15 minutes at a time.

Someday, we will find ourselves on even land again,
Even occasionally making our ways to mountaintops.
It will be a bittersweet journey upward and onward,
As I realize Your strength and his love are on this pilgrimage with me.

God in whose arms rock me throughout all my bouts of tears, I abide in pain as I watch my dad struggle to draw breath after breath.

He was with me throughout my first sleep-deprived nights and now I sit with him through his final sleeps. His tears flowed in my struggles; my well of lamentation has now run dry of liquid grief watching his body’s strength evaporate before me.

I ache for the days when I could hear his voice, see him write on a piece of paper, listen to his monotone singing.

Those moments can only be found in my rear view mirror.

As the aches of my heart pass along to my mind and spread fatigue throughout my body, give me the balm I need to survive these next hours.

Together, Holy One, we will continue to linger on every sacred breath, every twitch of his face. Even as his body is minimally alive, I bask in the radiating sunset of his soul, cherishing the last few moments of summertime innocence.

Who knew a Cheerios commercial could stir something within me and theologically warm in my heart…

The commercial features young boy asking his mom if Nana poured Cheerios for her when she was young. Her mom used to eat Cheerios with her

Maybe communion hasn’t quite been exactly the same for two thousand years like Cheerios has been the same since it was invented. There have been lots of rules added and removed. The quality of bread is different from denomination to denomination. Some of us walk to the front to receive our elements and others pass the elements from person to person while sitting in the pews. But one element remains the same – we come to the table to partake in a meal in remembrance of Jesus, and in doing so communion “has pretty much been the same forever.”

And then the little boy asks his mom: “So when we have Cheerios, it’s kind of like we’re having breakfast with Nana.” (Anyone else besides me get a little choked up at this point of the commercial?)

As this past Sunday’s Hebrews 12 lectionary text says, “we are surrounded by so a great cloud of witnesses,” communion reminds us of our connection to the generations of yesterday. In our time at the table, we recall what Jesus said: that in the sharing of this meal, we remember him. And as we remember him, we also remember all those who shared the same meal – our parents, grandparents and so forth.

When I go to the communion table, I share the meal with Jesus the Christ, with great theologians with whom I agree and disagree and with friends and enemies. I share the table with the rich and the poor, the criminal and the innocent. And I also share the communion table with my Grandad Lawrence, my Grandma Queenie, my Medshireke Fred and my Memama Margaret. I share the table with their parents and countless generations who have gone before them. I share the table with my Mom and Dad – whether they are in my church that day or not. I share the table with people who have not yet been born for ten, twenty or one hundred years.

It’s pretty amazing when we realize that each time we go to the communion table, it’s “kind of like having breakfast with Nana” and people from every time and age.